A Gently Haunted House
by greatunironic
Summary: Maybe it's the colour of grief, your grief. [These Are the Voyages tag.]


**a g e n t l y h a u n t e d h o u s e  
**"_Maybe it's the colour of grief, your grief." (_These Are the Voyages _tag.)_

**Disclaimer:** Je les adore. C'est tout. (Ne les aurais pas tué, c'est pour sûr.)  
**Rating:** PG-13 (I refuse to conform!) for brief language and talk of abuse.  
**Note:** I promised myself I wouldn't write anything to follow up TATV. I break promises.

* * *

**Night One: In Lieu of Flowers**

Midnight and Madeline knocked on the door to the bedroom. "I heard something happened."

Malcolm, as he stood at the window overlooking the ocean, turned his head and regarded his sister from the corners of his eyes. They found the bruise. "I wish you would leave him."

She touched it, gingerly, trying to hide it. "I love him."

"How can you love someone who hurts you?"

Forward and, "What happened, Malcolm?"

"When I die, will you put flowers on my grave?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Trip's dead. They tossed him into space. No flowers. I want flowers, okay?"

_-_

**Night Two: A River in Egypt**

They spent the day at the beach; all night, too. They sat in lawn chairs and the waves came up and twirled around them. They watched the sun race its chariot across the sky, painting brilliant colours in its wake, and then watched the moon wash them away with its pale palate.

"I hate the ocean," Malcolm said at four a.m. Madeline pulled out a beer, handing it to him.

"I know. But, don't worry—it's happy hour somewhere."

"Bangkok," Malcolm answered absently. Madeline ignored him.

They headed in at dawn. No one mentioned the bruise. No one mentioned Trip.

_-_

**Night Three: Life, Or Something Like It**

Her colourless eyes roomed the corners of the room: "I don't remember you buying this place."

"It was a whim," Malcolm said, watching as Madeline leaned against the doorjamb. They stared at each other for a moment before Madeline pulled herself away and went to the bed. She laid down on it. Both of them were in their clothes from the day. Malcolm could see Madeline's bruise, still vibrant.

"If I leave," she said slowly, "will you move on?"

"That's a terrible thing to ask," snapped Malcolm, staring at the ceiling. Madeline waited. "Maybe, okay?"

They didn't go to sleep.

_-_

**Night Four: The Unnatural**

The night was unnaturally still, and there was a bitter wind blowing in from somewhere. They didn't speak as they lay on the bed. They just pretended: pretended that there weren't some things in the world that made them cry at night, that didn't hurt them, that didn't tear them to pieces; pretended with desperate ferocity that they were happy and whole and natural and, gee, isn't life just grand?

_I don't miss him_, thought Malcolm.

_He doesn't hurt me_, thought Madeline.

They pretended that they were okay, fine. After all, what else is there to be when you're not?

_-_

**Night Five: Parenthesis, Grief, Parenthesis**

Madeline didn't understand her brother, couldn't understand why he wasn't grieving for his lost friend or anything he ever did. Malcolm couldn't understand why she wouldn't leave him alone. It was, of course, a brother and sister thing. But that didn't mean anything.

Because Malcolm didn't know (understand) what this was either. Maybe this was—

(loss)

(anger)

(apology)

(love)

—denial. But then Malcolm remembered a look and maybe that was—

(I miss you)

(I hate you)

(I'm sorry)

(I love you)

Nothing. The look was nothing. This was nothing. And nothing was certainly not grief. Maybe Madeline could understand that.

_-_

**Night Six: Leaving**

Madeline leaned against the doorjamb, just like she always did. She folded her arms over her chest, just like she always did. And she stared at Malcolm with her colourless eyes, just like she always did.

"Can I help you?" he asked, not looking up from his book.

"I'm leaving Paul." Madeline sat on the edge of the bed.

"Good for you." Malcolm turned a page.

"Does this mean you'll get over Trip now?" she questioned. "We did make a deal, you know."

"There's a difference between dying and leaving, Maddy," said Malcolm slowly.

"Not much that I can see."

_-_

**Night Seven: Week's End (No Rest for the Weary)**

At midnight, the waves rolled in and out.

Malcolm, in his study, drew the schematics for a new weapon and ignored them.

Madeline, in the kitchen, put peanut butter on her apples; she heard the waves. She loaded the apples onto a tray and, quietly, took them into Malcolm's study, pausing at the door. Malcolm wasn't working; instead, he stared at a picture of Trip and him. They were happy. But Trip was dead now, and Malcolm looked tired.

She left, to come back a little later; she had to. Malcolm was working again.

The waves, as ever, were ignored.

_-_

**Night Eight: Chartreuse**

"You know what is an odd colour?" Malcolm asked suddenly, eyes dark. "Chartreuse. Honestly. What's with chartreuse? It has absolutely no purpose in the world; I mean, it's not found anywhere in nature. So why don't we just call it blue-green? Very odd. Mauve too."

"Maybe it's the colour of grief, your grief," Madeline mused into the air, her face upturned and bright.

Malcolm rolled over, away from her, ignoring her. "Chartreuse. Terribly messed up."

Madeline turned her had to him, eyes concerned. "Malcolm…"

"It's fucked up."

"Mally, please…"

"Chartreuse is deeply—"

"Would you please—"

"—fucked up."

_-_

**Night Nine: Hamlet Had Something Going For Him with That Suicide Thing**

"Please talk to me," begged Madeline over the pillow.

"What's there to talk about?" Malcolm asked.

"Trip died, Mally," she snapped, her last thread of patience breaking. "He died nearly two weeks ago, and why can't you get the hell over it?"

"Because this isn't something you just _get over_!" he exploded, eyes flashing.

"Then at least grieve," she implored. "Or cry, or something. Just show some emotion."

"I want to die," he choked out. "_I want to die_. Because Trip was my best friend and—I can't—"

Madeline held her big brother in her arms as he cried.

_-_

**Night Ten: A Westerly Wind**

The white curtains billowed out, ghostly shapes in the dark filled room, and danced within and without the shadows and across the floor. The drapes cast delicate patterns on the bed. And, in the bed, they lay, back to back, feet pressed together, an arm each draped over and swelling into the small space between them, hands clasped gently. And even though Madeline's bruise was still showing violently and Malcolm's eyes were red and his cheeks stained—for the first time in days, they slept peacefully, with the wind whipping through the windows and leaving the smell of salt behind.


End file.
